


Badass in the Blood

by speederina



Category: Alien vs Predator (2004), Predator (1987), Predator 2 (1990), Predators (2010)
Genre: F/M, Horror, Interspecies, Romance, Sci-Fi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-11-08
Updated: 2012-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-28 10:14:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speederina/pseuds/speederina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She never stood a chance against this Bad Blood. But now that he's caught her, what next? Will he kill her, or does he have a far more sinister plan? Maybe he just wants what every guy wants...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, bear in mind while reading that this is based primarily off of Steve Perry's novelizations of the comics, which are based off the movies. Thus, I will provide translations of the predator (Yautja) language borrowed from his books in future chapters. There might also be a made up word of my own stuck in there occasionally. Anyway, enjoy my humble addition to the world of fanfiction. :)

Amber was running for her life, and failing miserably. She sobbed. That thing, that monster had to be less than ten feet behind her! She saw a low-hanging tree-limb and leaped for it, her arms stretching out over her head to grab hold and swing her into the tree. She shrieked when her leap was abruptly stopped. A massive, clawed hand grasped her calf and pulled her right back down to ground.

She could see the ground rapidly approaching her face, but she barely had time to flinch before her downward plunge stopped, with her face less than a foot from the dense undergrowth covering the ground. She grasped the undergrowth, trying to tug her leg free of its grasp. She sobbed again, helplessly, as she felt the plants slip from her grasp. It lifted her inexorably higher, until she could see its head, or at least the emotionless, black mask that covered it.

Amber's terror nearly overwhelmed her as she looked at the opaque lenses; she could barely breathe as it silently regarded her. She didn't dare scream for fear of angering it. Then she heard the soft chink of metal and she knew it was over. She could only hope it would be quick. It raised its free hand and she saw its wristblades were extended a foot out. It raised the blades and drew them along her cheek. She flinched and squeezed her eyes shut.

She whimpered when she felt a sharp sting on that same cheek, then two more. So much for a quick death. It seemed inclined to make her suffer first. Suddenly, the wristblades retracted and she heard a strange sound that sounded a little bit like laughter. It tossed her to the ground and began ripping her clothes off, with the help of its claws, growling at her the whole time.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she noticed it had taken its mask off. Its face was... Different. The cranium was very large and covered in little black spikes on the sides. The forehead also had lines of black spots on the edges and two up the center. Its "hair" line was very high, but rather than hair, it had black tubes, similar to dreadlocks, which had gold rings on them. They reached slightly past its broad shoulders.

In place of lips, it had four mandibles with sharp tusks on the ends. They were folded in, but as it extended them slightly in a kind of leer, and she saw it had a mouth with two large fangs on top and four smaller ones on the bottom. Its eyes were deep set and light gray in color, and the pupils were rimmed with red. It had neither nose nor ears, that she could see, anyway.

It had a pale, yellow complexion, mottled with black spots in no distinguishable pattern. But its most notable feature was its enormous size; it had to be almost eight feet tall! Its body was extremely muscular, with some muscles she couldn't even identify. They certainly didn't belong on a human. Its biceps were at least half as thick around as her waist, and just one of those huge, clawed hands could snap her neck without even trying.

At last, she came out of shock long enough to realize what was going on. She screamed, long and loud, unmindful of angering it, and started pounding on its chest with her fist. It roared, fully extending its mandibles and spitting in her face. She stopped, too shocked by its display to continue. Satisfied that she was appropriately submissive, it removed its belt and codpiece, leaving the fishnet, which covered most of its body, the armor and other weapons on.

That was when she realizes there was no point in referring to the alien as an "it" because, alien or not, it was obviously a male. A male who wanted very much to mate with her. And his cock, while it was essentially the same in form, it was almost twice as big as a human's in width and length.

He had stripped with amazing efficiency, and by the time she had stopped gawking, he was flipping her over onto her stomach. She tried to slide away from him, but he kept a firm grip and bit her on the shoulder. Actually bit her, fangs and all. She gasped at the sharp sting, and stopped moving. He... purred...? And pulled her back firmly against her. She started crying softly, her back trembling.

He grasped her hips and raised them up just as he thrust into her from behind. She screamed in pain, clawing the floor futilely to get away. Though she had had ample opportunity, she had never actually had sex before, believing it was best to wait until marriage. She was greatly regretting that decision now, as his entry was excruciating. He seemed to be enjoying himself, however, if his growls of pleasure were any indication. He thrust hard and fast, bruising the soft flesh of her hips with his tight grip.

After a few minutes, the pain hadn't lessened, a fresh wave of agony returning with every thrust. Her screams had died down, though, replaced by a continuous flow of tears, accompanied by harsh sobs. At this point, she just wanted it wanted it to be over. For him to take his wristblades and end it all. She didn't know how her life could go on after this.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he roared again, louder this time, almost deafening her, and bit her again. Then she felt his scalding semen jet into her, with surely more force than was natural. He sat there for a minute, breathing hard, then pulled out, making her moan in pain. She just lay there while he dressed and replaced his mask, too sore and tired to move. After a minute, he crouched down and threaded his clawed hand through her hair, lifting her head up.

He stared intently at her for a moment, and at the cuts he had made on her cheek, then tossed her over his shoulder, naked, and started running. Where, she had no clue. All of this dense jungle looked the same to her.

He ran at incredible speeds; she felt like they were going about 50 miles per hour. For Amber, it was a very painful trip, as, not only was she still hurting from his brutal rape and bite wounds, his shoulder was now digging into her stomach, making her want to throw up. She didn't try to get away. Even if she dared try to fall at this speed and height, his hand was pressed firmly on her thighs, keeping her securely on his shoulder.

Amber wasn't quite sure what to make of the situation overall. She had expected to die a long time ago, and just now, she had been sure that he would kill her, after satisfying some baser urges on her body. But, for whatever reason, she was still breathing, a fact which baffled her.

Her brooding was cut short when she realized they had stopped. From her high vantage point, she could see a pile of bodies, some of them headless, but all were mutilated beyond recognition. Amber gasped as her captor aimed the small cannon on his left shoulder and shot a blue blast of energy at the corpses, obliterating them, leaving no trace of their existence. Then he turned around and pressed some buttons on the control-pad located in his left gauntlet.

A huge, metal structure appeared in front of them. It looked a lot like a spaceship, something that didn't surprise her. She had known for a while that this thing was not human. Yes, she had known he was an alien (what else could he be?) but seeing such blatant proof before her eyes made her realize the full extent of the situation. It was not a happy realization. More like an abrupt disillusionment.

He bounded up a small ramp into the ship. The ramp retracted and the door slid shut behind them with a sound of finality. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom and she began to make out features of the interior of the ship. The floor was covered in about three feet of fog, and the temperature was sweltering; it had to be in the upper 90s. The gray walls were etched with swirling designs and strange characters.

A door slid open in front of them, and suddenly, he put her down. In a cage. She leaped forward and clasped the metal bars just as the door slid shut.

"No!" she cried. "Please, don't! Just let me go! Please!" she sobbed brokenly.

He growled warningly at her, and she slunk back against the far wall, thoroughly cowed. Apparently satisfied, he strode out of the room, the door shutting behind him. A few minutes later, the ship shook slightly and she felt something similar to being in an elevator going up. Then the artificial gravity kicked in and the feeling faded. She figured the ship was taking off.

Despite the intense heat of the ship, Amber felt a cold knot in her stomach, and she knew that she would never see her home again. As she tried to get comfortable on the hard metal floor, which was much colder than the air, she thought about how she might kill herself and thereby escape this situation. She curled into a ball and hugged herself, deciding she was far too much of a coward to kill herself. Before she knew it, she was sound asleep, the numerous troubles of the day having completely worn her out.


	2. Chapter 2

Amber was jerked roughly awake when the alien returned and dragged her out of the cage by the hair. She yelped and started struggling, trying to remove his claws from her hair. He ignored her feeble efforts and continued dragging her through the ship.

When they finally stopped, her scalp felt like all her hair had been pulled out by the roots. He wrapped one hand around her neck and pulled her to her feet. He tossed her a few scraps of tough, yet supple leather. She caught it, barely, and examined it cautiously. Soon, she realized it was a small pair of panties and a bra. She looked at him, surprised that he would bother to clothe her. Was it possible that he had other plans for her, besides killing her, or worse, raping her to death?

When she hesitated with the clothing, wondering if there was a catch attached to this unexpected kindness, he growled softly at her.

"Put them on," he rumbled, in a deep, gravelly voice.

She gasped. He had spoken English! Impatient, he made as if to dress her himself, and she quickly slipped them on, glad for the small amount of modesty. Mollified, temporarily at least, he gripped her elbow and led her over to a giant table, which was obviously designed for someone closer to his size.

He lifted her onto the table, which was a little over four feet high. Most of her height, fact; she was about 5'5". He placed a large, metal plate on her lap. To her disgust, it was filled with unidentifiable,  _raw_  meat. She didn't realize this at first, as it was black in color, prompting her to think it was perhaps over cooked. In fact, it was so raw, it was almost moving. She nearly retched. Her nausea increased when she thought about him hunting the animal this meat came from on the jungle planet they had just left. Under normal circumstances, Amber liked meat, but she didn't want to think about the cow that had contributed to the beef she consumed. And it didn't help that the meat was black, either.

All these factors led to one conclusion, and she had to shove the plate away on the table before she vomited on the floor. She didn't think he would like that. Unfortunately, he liked even less that she refused the meat. She couldn't see even a semblance of an expression, for he had replaced his mask, but his low growl clued her in. She cringed, and her fear threatened to overwhelm her once again, but somehow she managed speak past the lump in her throat.

"P-please," she choked out, "I c-can't eat that. Please, j-just cook it." She was begging now, close to tears. She hated that he made her cry all the time, showing so much weakness in front of him.

He picked up the plate and held it out in front of him. She figured he was using his mask to examine it. Finally, he held it out to her again.

"There is nothing wrong with the meat,  _ooman_ ," he spit out. "It is free of disease and not harmful to consume, even for your weak race." His rough voice was filled with contempt.

He grabbed her neck again, lifting her off the table as he drew her face to his. She gripped his wrist, trying to release the pressure on her airway. He thrust the plate into her lap.

"You will eat this, or nothing," he said menacingly. Then he turned on his heel and strode out.

Amber watched the door slide shut behind him and tried to quell her rising hysteria. If she didn't control her emotions, and soon, she would just start screaming and never stop. Well, until he killed her. What a morbid thought.

Amber didn't want to die. Before this nightmare, she had been someone who enjoyed life and its many benefits immensely. Perhaps a little too much, but she now regretted not having enjoyed it more. How pathetic was it that she'd lost her virginity to a hideous, rutting animal? Although, she was forced to admit, animals didn't speak perfect English, or have technology more advanced than humans in every way.

Well, his technology might be advanced, but he still dressed like a barbarian. In some places, such as across the chest and belt, there were several skulls from varied animals. They ranged in size, and there was even one or two from a human, though most of them were smaller.

The metal armor looked handcrafted, with great care involved in the making. This was placed in a few strategic spots, with the rest covered by that strange fishnet. His feet had four toes in front, with a dewclaw farther back. The soles of his feet were covered by a single piece of leather that was strapped on, like very simplistic sandals.

But the rings on his "dreads" were what really made him seem like some tribal warrior from the African jungle. He had very few of them, though. And they looked rather old, as if he didn't care about them enough to keep them in good condition. The gold metal was beaten up and bent. The symbols on them were unintelligible, even if she could read them.

Then there was his mask. This was in pristine condition, although it had one long, curving scar, stretching from the forehead over the right eye lens to the left cheek, nicking the mouth on the way. It had a marking burned into the forehead, with some type of acid, perhaps. Maybe it was some sort of identification. If she went with the tribal warrior theory, perhaps it was the symbol of his tribe or clan.

Now there was a thought to terrify. Could there be more just like him? More eight foot monsters who hunted people, and whatever else they could find, for sport, collecting skulls as trophies? If there were, Amber would rather have this one kill her now than meet them. Although she had a feeling that none of them would be quite as intimidating as him. He was truly masterful at getting her nearly incoherent from pure terror. And she thought he enjoyed it, too. Enjoyed when she couldn't even form words, she was so afraid of him. Afraid he might repeat his earlier performance.

Just the thought of that brought tears of remembered pain and humiliation to her eyes. She looked herself over, finding that new bruises had formed, most prominently over her hips, where he had grabbed her, pulling her towards him... She choked back her sobs. Now was not a good time to let her emotions run wild. He could return at any moment, and if that meat wasn't eaten... The consequences were too horrible to bear thinking of.

She dashed the tears from her eyes and grasped the plate. Her knuckles went white from the force of her grip. Best to get it over with, she thought. Can't think about what's in my mouth. Grimacing, she scarfed it down as quickly as she could. It was revolting, to say the least. Several times, she had to suppress her gag reflex to keep it down.

Without warning, the door slid open, and he came in. She really needed a name for him. He looked at the plate, then at her. She thought she heard a grunt of approval. He beckoned her casually. She looked doubtfully at the floor. It was a rather high table. In two huge strides, he was inches from her, lifting her to the floor.

His giant hand dwarfed hers, and he led her from the room. His legs were so long that, even if he was walking, she had to jog unless she wanted to be dragged on the floor behind him. She had a feeling he wouldn't stop to let her get up.

They walked through a large door, into what looked like a moderately sized training room. There were some weapons on the wall, and the room was mainly just a big, open space. There were a few obstacles, and some targets scattered around the room, which had about 50 square feet of floor space. The ceiling was about 20 feet high. The walls and floor were padded.

He led her to the edge of the room. Across the room from the door, she noticed. He shoved her down to the floor.

"Sit," he rumbled.

She obeyed, trying to make herself as small as possible on the floor. He watched her for a moment, just to make sure that she wasn't going anywhere, before he turned away and headed for the middle of the room.

He took a metal shaft from his back, about two and a half feet long and two inches in diameter. Suddenly, it extended, gaining two feet on either side, and the ends sharpened into spear tips. The middle was decorated with several small skulls and other bones from various animals. It had leather strips wound around it, to give the user a better grip. .

He began twirling it, and after that, her eyes could no longer track his movements. He jumped and flipped, spinning around with no warning and obliterating anything in his path. Within 20 seconds, he had demolished every target and surpassed every obstacle in the entire room. It was another 10 seconds before she remembered to close her mouth, which was hanging open in awe.

She had never had a chance against him. He must have been playing with her the whole time, making her believe she might get away, before cruelly dashing her hopes.

He trained for several hours, sometimes switching weapons, sometimes using none and relying on his body's natural weapons. After about a half hour, Amber's eyes began to droop and she curled up on the floor, falling asleep within a minute or so.

* * *

Syra'thwei crouched down and surveyed the peacefully slumbering ooman. She was so tiny, so delicate. He couldn't even imagine being an ooman. He would rather suffer a dishonorable death than live as a pyode amedha. It must be a living hell, with nearly every other creature in the universe stronger than them in some way.

Syra shuddered. How ironic that he, out of all the Yautja in his clan, should have been chosen for such a mission. His "clan" was made up of various Bad Bloods, cast out by their own clans, who formed their own separate society. The Leaders, elected from their members by popular vote, had chosen him. What had they been thinking?

All his clan mates knew of his disdain for oomans. The females were good for a quick pauk every now and then, and the males could, on occasion, make for an interesting hunt, but for the Leaders' purposes? They would be better off using a wild jar'ak. At least they were cleaner.

And yet, as he regarded the small form at his feet, he felt strangely protective. He still had no qualms about using her in whatever way he wished, but he didn't like the thought of another Yautja doing the same, especially one of his clan mates. They wouldn't understand where the line was, the one that couldn't be crossed without permanently damaging her, mentally and physically.

He didn't respect her at all; respecting any ooman was difficult, let alone a female. He would leave that to the "Honorable" warriors of his previous clan. If one were to compare ooman and Yautja females, the result was almost laughable. On one hand, you had aggressive, assertive females, who were often much larger than the average male. They were responsible for initiating all sexual encounters, and the males had to prove to them, by way of hand-to-hand combat, that they were the best father for the female's future pups. And after that, the male still had to subdue the female long enough to actually spill his seed. With all that, sometimes pauking an ooman was a refreshing change.

The ooman females were usually meek and timid, deferring to the the males for most things. In size, they were the opposite of the Yautja, and their male counterparts were usually about a foot taller, though both ooman and Yautja heights had large variation. In sexual encounters, it was true that the males still competed, but it was mainly verbally, and after one was selected, the female submitted willingly.

And, of course, there was always the shortcut of rape, which he, himself had no qualms about using, or  _abusing,_  you could say. Among his people, such a thing could never happen, although, a Bad Blood such as himself was always apt to try. It was simply doubtful that the male would win, for the Yautja females received just as much combat training as the males, and, due to their greater size and strength, it was not uncommon for a female to kick the c'jit out of a male in a fair fight.

He tried to imagine this little female doing the same. He trilled softly in laughter and she stirred on the floor. She didn't awaken, just shifted on the floor. She curled up next to his legs, clutching them. For comfort? He knew that oomans craved contact with others of their race, much more so than the Yautja. His was a solitary race and they rarely interacted with touch, believing it showed weakness. When they did touch each other, it was often a shove on the shoulder, signaling a challenge.

And yet, he found it oddly endearing on her. Strangely enough, he was beginning to like having this ooman around. Her weakness made him feel powerful, a rare reaction with his race, because the females were almost always stronger than the males. This female could be a rare find, and he was finding himself rejecting the idea of handing her over to the Leaders.

Syra checked himself. He was becoming as sentimental as an ooman, he thought in disgust. He stood up and nudged her with his foot. She didn't move, and he growled impatiently. He cupped her face, claws digging into her cheeks, and shook her. She came awake slowly, stretching languorously, until she noticed the his sharp claws cutting into her face. She cried out in pain, opening her eyes to find herself staring into his black mask. It seemed to overshadow everything else in the room.

She jerked, trying to get away. His claws dug in, making five long scratches down her cheeks as she scrambled away from him. He released her, enjoying her wary expression as she shrank away. Syra clicked his mandibles together, beckoning her. As he slowly approached her, in a stalking motion reminiscent of a cat's, she slid backward along the wall, cowering away from him. She knew what he wanted, and she had no intention of lying on her back, or stomach, as it were, and spreading her legs at his command.

She knew she would lose, but she had to try. She had to fight him.

She scrambled up, unconsciously moving into a fighting stance, bending her knees slightly, and ready to bolt at the slightest aggressive move on his part. Under the mask, Syra's mandibles moved into the Yautja version of a smile. This was what he knew. A female ready to fight him for the right to mate with her. The females of his own pseudo-clan were few and far between. And the few could easily fend off the lusty males. They were like the female convicts placed into the men's prison on Earth; they had to have done something pretty bad to get there, and they had to be strong to not get caught by the arbitrators.

This one fact made their ostracized society totally different from the rest of the Yautja. It narrowed the gene pool down to a few favored males who were either strong enough to overpower the females, or chosen personally to father their sucklings. So what did the rest of them do?

It didn't take long for the pyode amedha to become a valid option. And of course, being Bad Bloods, the majority of which didn't have much respect for lou-dte-kalei in general, they were hardly likely to treat the oomans with any deference. In other words, courting was out. The very idea was laughable. Competing for their attention was also out. There were so many oomans, what would be the point of fighting over one?

Another aspect was that they had begun mating purely for pleasure. It was very difficult, nearly impossible for a Yautja to reproduce with an ooman woman. But when his clan had first tried, they had discovered how pleasurable it was to mate with an ooman. It was easier, for one. And for two, well... The difference in size was very advantageous to them.

Most had taken to capturing oomans that pleased them in some way, and keeping them on their ship at all times. Syra had briefly considered doing this, but had decided against it eventually. He wasn't so interested in sex as to go to the trouble of keeping a sex slave on his ship, always at his disposal. He was much more interested in hunting (and killing) the pyode amedha than wasting his seed on such feeble creatures, most of whom wouldn't even become pregnant as a result. His attitude, however, was beginning to change. Perhaps he would find another girl for the Council. They weren't too picky, after all, and probably wouldn't care too much if he kept this girl to himself.

It would mean going back to Earth, though. He would have to give it some thought. There was plenty of time; the Leaders weren't in any hurry for him to get back.

In the meantime, though, Syra turned his thoughts to the situation at hand, and the little ooman who was defying him.

Time to teach her who was n'yaka-de here.

Syra copied her movements, his stance widening as her slowly herded her into a corner. Her eyes darted around, looking for an opening where she could get around him and, with luck, into a smaller room where he couldn't use his size as an advantage. If there even was such a room on this ship. Everything here was a lot more accommodating to his size than hers.

When she saw her opening, she didn't hesitate, she ran for it, attempting to slide underneath his outstretched arm. He almost laughed. She telegraphed everything, leaving him plenty of time to lower his arm so it wrapped securely around her stomach, stopping her in mid-slide. He picked her up with the same arm, lifting her to his chest so she was dangling almost two feet off the floor.

She huffed as he caught her, the air rushing from her lungs in one motion. She struggled madly against him when he lifted her off the floor, flailing uselessly with her arms and legs. She soon stopped when his arm tightened, cutting off her breathing. He pressed her to his cock, which had been stirred by her struggles, and purred. All his instincts were telling him to subdue her, to make her submit to him, then mate with her.

She stilled completely as she felt his desire, whether in terror or awe, he couldn't tell. He decided it was terror when she began fighting again, even more insanely this time. The smell of her fear was pungent, and Syra didn't like it anymore. If he raped her now, he would feel as though he had kicked a little, helpless animal. His instinct screamed at him again, eager for any female, no matter how willing. He hesitated a moment. Somehow, he knew that this was the line, and if he crossed it, she would never be the same.

Pauk his instinct.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations (in order of appearance)
> 
> ooman - slang for human  
> Syra'thwei - Head-blood. You can interpret that however you wnat.  
> pyode amedha - soft meat; refers to humans  
> jar'ak - my own made up animal that bears a close relation to a pig  
> pauk(ing) - fuck(ing)  
> c'jit - shit  
> lou-dte'kalei - child-maker; derogatory slang for females  
> n'yaka-de - master


	3. Chapter 3

When the enormous alien picked her up and pressed her hips to his, she felt a myriad of emotions. Strangely, her first feeling was intense desire. If he were human, there would be no doubt in her mind of her next move. Then she remembered that he was very much not human, and decided she would rather not be impaled with that massive appendage again. That had been a decidedly unpleasant experience.

She struggled wildly, kicking and scratching, and biting where she could reach. Not that it made any difference. He was completely unaffected by her attack, holding her easily. Worse, she could feel him lengthening beneath her. She was just about to give up in despair, bracing herself for whatever would follow, when...

He dropped her.

She was so shocked, her knees collapsed, and she landed hard on her hands and knees. When she scrambled to her feet, he was gone, and the door to the training room was open. Her mouth hung open in amazement. She had been granted a reprieve, apparently, from his amorous attentions. Perhaps he didn't like when she fought him. But that didn't explain his abrupt departure and (dare she say it?) apparent sulking. Surely, if he was annoyed with her for not submitting as she had earlier, he would have punished her.

Amber was thoroughly confused, but decided not to question this miracle, as it were, and instead take advantage of the situation. After all, though she had forgotten for a moment, she was in a room that was filled with weapons. If she could just find one small enough to wield... Concealing it was out of the question; she didn't have enough clothing to cover herself, let alone a weapon.

That said, her attack would have to be swift; if she could surprise him before he realized she was armed, she might have a chance of at least injuring him. And then what, she asked herself. So he would be injured. Even with a stab wound, he was still more than capable of handing her her ass on a platter. Or her head, spine still attached, courtesy of his wristblades. But she had to try something,  _anything_ , and she had to do it fast. He could return any second now. Surely he would remember that he had left her alone in a room in which the walls were covered in deadly knives, spears, and even one of those plasma guns, like the one on his shoulder.

Wait, a plasma gun? She smiled as, slowly, a plan came into form in her mind. It just might work...

* * *

A loud crash resounded as Syra's fist made contact with the wall.

"Pauk!" he snarled.

How could one little ooman get under his skin like this? He was a Bad Blood, and already he was considering keeping her. Which would mean turning his ship around and heading back to earth so he could find another pyode amedha to take her place. A tedious task, to be sure, and one he would rather avoid. He had to get this lou-dte'kalei out of his head somehow, and fast, before he became any more attached to her.

There was no way he was going back to that disgusting ooman planet for a replacement. And if he wanted to make use of her body for whatever small diversion he could get out of it, he would do so, with or without her participation. What did he care for her feelings, after all? It wasn't as if she could retaliate, as the females of his own race would.

As he justified his actions to himself, Syra began to calm, which was a good thing for the wall of his sleeping quarters. Unfortunately, at that moment, he recalled where he had left the ooman. His eyes widened behind the mask, and he almost ran out of the room. He didn't think she would dare to raise a weapon against him, but he had a sivk'va-tai in that room. If she found out how to use it...

He cursed his carelessness. How could he have been so stupid? This accursed ooman made him hulij-bpe, to leave her in the kehrite unsupervised. From now on, she was staying in the cage, unless she felt like ...pleasing him.

His face sported an ugly grin as he cautiously entered the kehrite. He looked around, and quickly lost his smile when he saw no one. Where was the bitch hiding? Tendrils of dread snaked through him as he heard the high-pitched whine of a sivk'va-tai powering up behind him. Slowly, he turned to face her. His mask cheerfully informed him that she had, indeed, discovered how to use his spare sivk'va-tai, and that it was, in fact, targeted on him. It went on to say that he might consider getting out its range as soon as possible. Syra didn't move. He simply stared at her, waiting to see what she would do. So she could use it. That didn't mean she would have the guts to do so.

She looked nervous enough to fire it accidentally, however, and he didn't want to spook her. One shot in the right place from that thing and he could find himself without a head. An outcome that was to avoided at all costs. If he was missing his head, he couldn't punish her for such an idiotic move. Oh yes, he was looking forward to that. But first things first: get that weapon out of her shaking hands.

"D-don't move," she stuttered, trying to sound commanding, but failing. Her order was pointless anyway, as he was already motionless.

On the surface, he appeared completely relaxed – his stance was normal, his hands were at his sides – but underneath, his muscles were coiled to spring, and he tensely waited to see what she would do.

But if he was tense, she was terrified. He could smell the sour tang of fear from her. Good. She had reason to fear him and what he would do when she was no longer in possession of that deadly weapon.

So when she ordered him not to move, he merely stared at her, trying to break down whatever meager courage she retained. Unfortunately, his plan backfired, appearing instead to make her  _gain_  confidence rather than losing it. She squared her shoulders, and her chin went up stubbornly.

"Turn around, she ordered coldly, "and walk slowly out the door."

This enraged him, and he almost disregarded the gun in her hands and charged her. He clenched his fists, claws gouging into his palms, and , with some difficulty, controlled his anger. He turned around, and began to head out of the room.

He would have just blasted her to smithereens with his own sivk'va-tai, but the simple fact was, he didn't want any explosions going on inside his ship, whether from him or her. He had killed a lone hunter for this ship, and it was fully outfitted with everything a Yautja out on his own for years at a time would need. As such, it was extremely valuable, and he took great care to keep it in pristine condition. He certainly didn't need plasma explosions blowing giant holes in it from the inside.

His strides were longer than hers, and she had to jog to keep up, as they moved slowly (to him at least) out of the room.

"Slow down!" she yelled at him, pointing the gun at his back threateningly.

Reluctantly, he curbed his stride, allowing her to catch up. They continued like this through the ship until they reached the room where he had intended to keep her for the duration of the trip. The cage seemed to gleam tauntingly at him, and he growled low. He spun around to face her, unbelieving that she would actually do this. He roared at her in rage.

She trembled, but raised her voice to be heard above his, and shouted at him, "Get in the fucking cage, you son of a bitch!"

What had she just called him? Oh, she was going to pay for that one. Finally, he stopped roaring and opened the cage. He climbed inside, hunching over it was not quite big enough to accommodate his large frame. He huffed quietly.  _Fucking_  cage, was it? Well, he hadn't thought so, but now that she mentioned it... He would be sure to give her a good pauking once he was out of here. Underneath the mask, he smiled without humor, until her voice shook him out of his grim reverie.

"Shut the door," she ordered.

He complied, with no more than a low growl, and she came over and locked it. She backed up and let out a deep sigh, then seemed surprised to find she'd been holding her breath. She went to the far side of the room and slid down the wall, sitting down with her knees grasped in front of her. She took a shaky breath, then began to laugh and laugh, until her laughter turned to tears and she laid her head between her knees and sobbed.

Syra was thoroughly confused. He could understand the laughter. It enraged him, but he could understand why she would be happy, even gloating that she had bested him. But tears? Why was she sad? He shook his head, making his black, tube-like hair click together as it swung around, and dismissed her. He turned his back to her as he attempted to pace the small space of the cage. He tried to ignore the pitiful sniffling noises she was making and concentrate on a plan to escape, and, more importantly, get her under his control again.

Hopefully, he could accomplish this before the ship, which was locked on a set course, could arrive at it's destination. He wasn't worried about her changing it; it was impossible for anyone but the owner (him) to change a locked course on this ship, for security reasons, of course. But if his clanmates ever found out that he had been outsmarted, even for a moment, by his own ooman captive, he would never live it down. He couldn't even imagine what would happen if the ship docked and they found him in her cage while she had the run of the ship.

His reputation would be gone, never to return.

He shuddered to think of the repercussions of such an outcome. He had to get out of here, fast. But the cage had originally been designed with the kainde amedha in mind, and was solid d'lex, the same material as the weapons she had so carelessly forgotten to relieve him of. Unfortunately, unless he cared to destroy his ship with a few shots from his sivk'va-tai, none of his weapons would cut through this metal.

Perhaps his mask could hack into the lock somehow... But no, the lock was manual. He would have to pick it himself, a difficult and tedious task, for the lock was made to be kainde amedha-proof. In other words, he could do it, but it would take time, time when she wasn't in the room with him. Perhaps he could anger her into leaving. Or maybe she would just shoot him.

Well, he had to try.

* * *

As Amber laughed in relief and triumph, she felt as if a dam had burst inside her, and suddenly, she was sobbing her heart out. She cried for her lost home, for the life she would probably never get back. She cried in self-pity, over the hopelessness of her situation. Even if the bastard was caged, she knew it was only temporary, and fact was, she had no idea what to do now. She had been running on half-assed, Hail Mary plans and adrenaline so far, and frankly, she was amazed she had gotten this far. She had expected to be dead by this point, or worse. But now that she had "won," she was finally running out of the energy and the inclination to keep going.

She was tired. She had been raped, dragged around by her hair, and had the equivalent of a brick hit her in the stomach when he had stopped her desperate flight earlier. More than anything, she just wanted to curl up in her bed in her little apartment in downtown New York, and  _sleep_. The short naps she had gotten so far could only suffice for so long, and she was wearing thin. Not to mention, she had gotten very little sleep over the past few weeks, being so busy with her work. She was an anthropologist, specializing in ethnography, and she had been heading to a site in Brazil, deep in the Amazon, where there was supposedly an undiscovered tribe.

There were certain companies that wanted to do some oil exploration in the same general area, and she had been hired by an environmentalist group to prove their existence either way, therefore preventing any further action by the oil companies. She had been under explicit orders not to contact them in any way. She was simply to go there, find them (or not), and report back. The people who hired her believed that the rare people who had managed to remain isolated from modern civilization should be able to remain that way. Amber didn't exactly agree with that sentiment, but it was a job, and it payed a sizable salary, which was lucky in her chosen field.

But when Amber had agreed to the job, she had never expected to be "contacted," so to speak, by another race far modern advanced than humans' modern civilization. If she'd had her way, she would have remained blissfully ignorant of the existence of creatures powerful enough to completely wipe out humans, if they so wished. At least, that's what she'd gathered from her brief stay here, and her interaction with her captor, before and after her abduction.

Now she understood somewhat why this undiscovered tribe might not want to find out that there were billions of people around them who were laughing at their primitive way of life. It was a harsh awakening to realize just how much bigger the world was than you'd thought. To go from their small world in the Amazon Rainforest, to a world filled with people and technology they'd never even dreamed of was quite similar to her own predicament; it wasn't a very nice feeling when you were suddenly informed that the universe didn't revolve around humans. And that their neighbors liked to hunt humans and use their skulls as trophies.

My god, she thought, how long have these things been coming to Earth with no one ever realizing it? Maybe the theories about aliens building the pyramids were true. She could totally understand how they could be worshiped as gods by the primitive humans of the time. Hell, she could almost imagine them as gods. Or him, at least. His powerful body certainly rivaled that of a god, and combined with his weapons, he was unstoppable. Watching him train had been like watching an Olympic figure skater, if figure skaters wore fishnet and carried six-and-a-half foot spears. It was like a deadly dance, all carried out in the space of a minute.

Amber suddenly realized that she had stopped crying, and was staring off into space with a dreamy look in her eyes. She stopped her herself from sighing just in time.

He was staring at her again, but she felt no malevolence in his gaze this time. He seemed... curious.

She started. "What the hell are you staring at?" she said accusingly, inexplicably feeling defensive. Perhaps it was because the space she had been staring at was the cage and, more specifically, him.

"Could ask you the same thing, bitch," he sneered.

"Don't call me that! I'm the one who has the gun here, remember?"

He huffed. "As if you'd ever use it."

She gasped. He was dismissing her? Just like that? Well, she'd show him. "As if I- You bastard! You seemed pretty sure I'd do it when you walked right into that cage." He growled, and she went on, her voice rising in volume. "You want me to use it? Well, why don't I just shoot you right now? Wouldn't my life be a whole lot easier without you around?"

"Go ahead. Then see if you can get back to your planet without my help."

"Oh, yeah right. Like I'm gonna fall for that. Come on, it can't that hard to fly this thing. It has an autopilot, doesn't it?"

"Yes, it does, and right now, that autopilot is set for my clanship, and I'm the only one who can change the course. How much good do you think one sivk'va-tai will do against thousands of my race? You'd be better off using it to end your pathetic life."

"W-what?" she whispered, stunned. "No, y-you're bluffing!"

"See for yourself." He gestured towards the door.

She looked at the door, clearly wanting to leave, but still reluctant. She looked back at him. "How do I know you're not just going to bust out of there as soon as I'm gone?"

"I don't want you blowing holes in my ship, that's why. Even if you miss me, you could still hit something important."

When she still hesitated, he snarled at her, "Well? Are you going, or not? Believe me, you don't want my clanmates to find you with free run of my ship. However bad you think I am, they're ten times worse. I, at least, still retain some small honor from days long past. They do not."

Syra thought he saw a spark of fear in the ooman's eyes, and when she gazed at the door again, he knew this time she would leave.

Sure enough, she started backing up, stopping at the door for one more glance at him, before turning and heading off to look for the ship's controls. In completely the wrong direction. He almost laughed. That should give him a little more time to get past the lock on this cage.

While he worked carefully on the complicated lock, using a combination of his claws and wristblades to jiggle the mechanism, he marveled at how easy it had been to deceive her. By telling her a slightly doctored version of the truth, while at the same time implying that he would help her pilot the ship back to Earth, he had easily gotten her out of the room, giving him plenty of time to escape.

And when he escaped... He would make her rue the day she had ever been born. He grinned in anticipation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations (in order of appearance)
> 
> pauk(ing) - fuck(ing)  
> ooman - slang, refers to humans  
> pyode amedha - soft meat; refers to humans  
> lou-dte'kalei - child-maker; derogatory slang for females  
> sivk'va-tai - plasma caster/shoulder cannon  
> hulij-bpe - crazy  
> kehrite - training hall/dojo  
> kainde amedha - hard meat; refers to xenomorphs


	4. Chapter 4

It didn't take Amber long to realize she was completely turned around. She couldn't believe she had just walked out of there without even asking him where the ship's controls were. And she was far too stubborn to go back now and ask. That would be too humiliating for words, not to mention, she wasn't even sure she could  _find_  her way back. She was royally screwed.

She stopped, trying to calm her rising panic. She just had to go about this methodically, then she could find her way back to familiar hallways. Deep breaths. In, out. Okay. You're okay.

Amber looked at the T-intersection in front her; one hallway leading left, the other, right. Left was as good a direction as any, she supposed, heading down the left hallway. It ended in single door, which slid open as she approached. One look at its contents had her slack-jawed.

It was a medium-sized room; about 20 square feet. It was covered, wall-to-wall, with skulls. Surprisingly, only a few of them were human; most of them were totally alien. There was one recurring type, though. It was very elongated, slightly banana-shaped, and quite eyeless. It had extremely sharp teeth, plus a tongue that doubled as an inner jaw. The teeth were coated in some kind of silver enamel, and they glistened ominously.

Scarier still, there was a variation on this eyeless creature. Its colossal skull held a place of honor, mounted on the far wall facing the door, with the smaller versions surrounding it. The main difference that she could discern, besides its size, was a huge, intricate crown. The only thing she could think to compare it to was moose antlers. She snorted. That was a fucking scary pair of antlers.

The other skull that held a place of honor in the room, was one from her captor's own race. There were a few more of them scattered around the room, but none as impressive as this one. It still had its hair attached, for one, and for two, it was, again, bigger. The dreads, unlike her captor's, had countless gold bands covering them, all of which, like the skull, were in pristine condition. The mandibles were spread in a furious roar, and it seemed to Amber that its empty eye sockets were somehow pointed in her direction. She could almost feel its gaze upon her. Strange though, the feeling originated from the back of her neck, and she was facing it, so unless it had eyes in its head...

She spun around, aiming the gun forward as she did so. She gasped to find directly behind her. He caught her wrist, effectively stopping her from pointing her weapon anywhere but the ceiling. One clawed hand wrapped around her neck and he raised her about a foot in the air, ignoring her wild kicks and punches with her other hand. Then his other hand tightened, quickly becoming painful. She whimpered, but refused to let the gun drop. She let loose a strangled scream as her wrist snapped with a horrible cracking sound. She felt nauseated when she saw the odd angle it was sitting at. The gun dropped from her lifeless fingers, clattering the onto the floor.

She shrieked when he cruelly applied more pressure to her now-broken wrist. He laughed sadistically, then dropped her on the floor. She curled into a ball, cradling her wrist as she sobbed in pain. He removed his mask for the first time since they'd left Earth, and placed it on the skull she'd been admiring. He stretched his mandibles, then pulled them into a sneer.

"I should kill you now, tarei'hsan," he spat, "but that would be too easy. No, I'm going to make you suffer until you beg for u'sl-kwe."

"No," she sobbed. "D-don't! I'm sorry!"

He didn't even appear to have heard her. His eyes glittered in rage as he tore off her scanty clothing – the small leather apparel he had given her earlier. She scrambled for the dropped gun a few feet from her reach, but he saw her intention and kicked it away. She looked up at him, looming over her, then began to scramble in the other direction, away from him. Far away from him. She knew that look in his eyes now, and other, more obvious indicators clued her in to his current mood.

Her retreat was stopped by the wall, and the giant, crowned skull which was mounted on it. It was at least six feet long including the crown, which was over four feet across at its widest point. He looked at her, backed up against his most prized trophy, and his eyes went black, pupils extended so far, there was almost no iris visible. He strode up to her, growling, and lifted her up so she was sort of straddling the thinnest part, just above the deadly jaws, putting her hips at about the same level as his.

Amber didn't fight him, just went limp and squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to think about what would happen next. She didn't have to wait long. He quickly stripped, the process reminding her of the last time he had done this, and she shuddered. Then he was inside her, and soon enough, it was over. She let out a shaky sigh of relief as he pulled out, letting her slide to the floor, where she crumpled, too sore to move. But that relief didn't last long.

He righted his clothing, keeping hers, and replaced his mask. Then he twisted his hand into her hair, getting a firm grip before he dragged her out of the room, stopping to pick up the plasma cannon on his way out. She yelped in pain, and he yanked on her hair, sending her a clear signal – to shut up. She set her teeth and bit her tongue the rest of the way. With his long strides, they reached the cage room in no time, but she was surprised when he kept going, not even giving the door a second glance. Her stomach tightened in dread. If not the cage, what then? Did he intend to start fulfilling his promise of pain right now?

He stopped at another door a ways away. It slid open, and she realized this must be his quarters. They were filled with more skulls, most of them less impressive than the ones in the other room. There was one, though, that she found very strange. It was markedly humanoid, but had a few "extras" that certainly didn't belong on a human skull. One of those was a trunk, about a foot long, and there were also small tusks beside its mouth, which was similar to that of an elephant. Amber wondered if there wasn't perhaps some planet filled with a race descended from elephants. What a strange thought.

He interrupted her musings when he tossed her onto a surprisingly luxurious pallet of furs, pulling out a goodly amount of her hair in the process. She caught herself on her right arm, the one with the broken wrist, and she gasped, trying not to throw up from the intense pain. Her vision swirled black, but somehow she kept from fainting, though she almost regretted it. Meanwhile, he went across the room and picked up a metal chain that was attached to the wall. She realized his intention and her eyes filled with horror.

She looked up at him pleadingly, but her eyes only met his implacable face of mask. There was a smooth metal collar on one end of the chain, and her heart sank as he fit it around her neck, locking it seamlessly with a click. It was a perfect fit, with about a half-inch of room on the sides. He stood up, regarding her for a moment, then left the room. The door slid shut with a final sound that matched her thoughts.

She started crying quietly. Now she had truly sunk the lowest – chained up with a collar like a misbehaving pet. That was all she was to him. A pet; a toy that he occasionally wanted to have sex with. And how pathetic was she, lying there sobbing over her sad plight?

She sniffed and wiped her eyes as she took stock of her situation. The first thing she noticed, obviously, was her wrist. It was extremely swollen and painful, and already bruised in an ugly rainbow of yellows and purples all around the break, which was a little over an inch down from the actual wrist joint. When she tried to move it, pain shot through her entire forearm and her hand. It wasn't a compound fracture, thank God, so the bone wasn't poking through. It still hurt like hell, though. What she wouldn't give for some morphine... It hurt so bad, she didn't even feel the host of other scratches and bruises she had incurred while he was hunting her in the jungle, and while she was under his care. And what a tender care it was, she thought sarcastically.

She sighed frustratedly, then winced at the pain from her throat. She guessed she must have a ring of bruises around that too, from when he was holding her up by her throat. She didn't want to splint her wrist, in case the bone wasn't lined up right. If it healed wrong, she could end up deformed for the rest of her life. But if she didn't do anything, it could heal even more deformed, if it healed at all. Dammit! She wasn't a doctor! What did she know about treating broken bones? She'd just have to leave it alone for now and hope for the best.

Amber looked around the room, not really seeing anything of note. There were a few weapons on one wall, but even if she could reach them with the chain, she wouldn't even consider using them against him. He had successfully eradicated any remaining rebellious inclinations; she was completely done with that plan. The current plan was: do whatever the fuck he says, without question.

Although, with his current mood, she didn't really think that would help her at all. But resisting was just too hard; all it gained her was pain, and more pain. And if that wasn't enough, another heaping serving of pain should do the trick. Well, she'd gotten her heaping serving, and it didn't feel very good. Who was she, after all, to be fighting a battle of wills with a him? He was a goddamn alien, superior to her in every way. Every way that mattered, at least. What mattered compassion, anyway? It certainly had no bearing in her current situation.

All she had to do to survive, intact both mentally and physically, was to detach herself. As long as she didn't care what happened to her, she could force herself to play the willing whore, attentive to his every whim. If she could just figure out how to retreat deep into her mind when he was around... If she could do that, she knew she could get through this.

Amber decided to practice by getting some sleep while she had this undoubtedly brief reprieve. Maybe if she got some rest, she would have a little more energy, and be more prepared to deal with him, when he came back. Maybe she would stop thinking about how easy it would be to take one of those knives on the wall and plunge it into her heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations (in order of appearance)
> 
> tarei'hsan - small insect/unworthy opponent  
> u'sl-kwe - final rest; death


	5. Chapter 5

Syra was still seething in anger as he stormed out of his room after having assured himself that his captive wouldn't be escaping anytime soon. She was mostly unhurt as yet, but he had no intention of letting her escape without the promised retribution. But before he could get to that, there were a few things to take care of around the ship. Namely, tidying up after her little escapade.

The cage needed to be cleaned and the weapons returned to the kehrite. Plus, there was undoubtedly blood spattered around his trophy room and trailing along the hall where he had dragged her. Syra headed there first. Sure enough, there was blood smeared on the floor inside and outside the room. There was an easy solution for that, however. He used his mask, which connected to the ship's controls, and used the cleaning feature, flooding the floor briefly with a potent solvent. He stepped onto one of the trophy stands while it worked, as it was acidic enough to burn his skin with prolonged contact.

That done, he examined the rest of the room for any blood or dirt he had overlooked. Syra froze as he came face to face with the skull of the kainde amedha queen. It was the one he had pauked the ooman on, and it was smeared with a mixture of her blood and his semen. Syra shook his head; he couldn't believe he had pauked her on his most prized trophy. What had possessed him? And yet, looking at it now and remembering how she had looked straddling the skull, him pounding into her, he felt his member rise.

Were he still an Honored warrior, that would have been something he would have done with a Yautja female, and it would have aroused her as much as it did him. But why had he done such a thing with an ooman? He certainly wasn't courting her, so why had he felt so proud to see her open-mouthed in awe as she looked at his many trophies? He had even felt… somewhat possessive. Which was ridiculous, of course. It would do him no good to be possessive when he had to give her up to the Leaders within a month.

Syra was dissatisfied with the whole affair. He had been pressured into this mission from the beginning and he was starting to regret giving in. One of the Leaders, Dachande, had questioned his ability to attract females and Syra had not responded well. He had almost smashed the old bastard's face in. Fortunately, he had restrained himself, but what he'd done instead had perhaps not been the wisest idea. He'd told Dachande to give him any task, no matter how dangerous, and he would do it. Dachande's response? He'd told Syra travel to Earth, which involved passing through some of the most Arbitrator-infested space in the galaxy, and collect an ooman, no gender specified.

Looking back on it, Syra's only excuse for such stupidity was that he had been overwhelmed with male hormones at the time. Well, that and the fact that he'd just consumed a couple gallons of c'nlip, making him an easy target for that kwei bastard's manipulation. Syra had no doubt that Dachande had purposely provoked him into agreeing to such an idiotic mission. It was gkei'moun for the most part, but that Arbitrator "camping spot" worried him. He had managed, through suicidal piloting and sheer luck, to tear through their ambush on the way to Earth, but it was unlikely he'd be able to repeat such a maneuver this time.

They might even be waiting for him, though he wasn't sure they'd even had time to realize that a ship had passed before he'd been gone. Maybe...

His mask suddenly notified him that he was receiving a call in his bedroom. He finished cleaning the room, leaving his trophies spotless, and hurried back to his bedroom. As he entered his room quietly, he noticed the little ooman had had the audacity to curl up on his bed. She was sound asleep, which irritated him. What right did she have to look so cute lying there? Paya, was he thinking of her as cute now?

On his way over to the viewing screen built into the wall, he kicked her in the stomach, hard. She woke up instantly, gasping and clutching her bruised abdomen. He ignored her, having already made his sentiments toward her quite clear, and used his mask to bring up whoever was trying to call him on the large screen. Then he removed it to make conversation easier, hanging it on his belt.

An old Yautja appeared on the screen, Dachande, Syra realized. He huffed. What did the pauker want now?

"What is it?" he snarled in his own language, making the ooman look at him fearfully. The old Yautja appeared surprised for a moment at Syra's harsh outburst, but his features quickly transformed into anger.

"How dare you address me so,  _sain'ja_?" he spat, and the ooman's eyes flicked to the screen in surprise. She regarded them both warily, inching slowly into a dark corner where she would be less noticeable.

Syra scoffed, ignoring her antics for the moment. "I'll give you respect when you earn it, Dachande, but don't hold your breath. You may have the Youngbloods fooled, but I've been around long enough to realize that there is no Yautja deserving of respect besides Paya herself."

"Insolent kha'bj-te!" Dachande was furious, his mandibles flaring in rage. "I will teach you respect when you are finally yeyin enough to return. You are on a mission, or has your memory failed you?" he sneered. "Have you acquired an ooman?"

Syra nodded. "Did you ever doubt it?" he sneered. Dachande looked at him in disgust, clearly conveying his feelings in that regard.

"Where is it?" he asked sharply. "You haven't permanently damaged it, have you? We do need it alive, if you remember."

Syra growled. " _She_  is fine. A little bruised, but nothing that isn't fixable, should you be given the time and inclination to do so."

"Let me see her. This is far too important for me to take you at your... rather dubious word. I've heard about what's been going on between Yautja and female oomans on their ships. Disgusting."

"You're one to talk," Syra shot back. Reluctantly, he stalked over to the ooman and dragged her out of the corner. She struggled for a second, fear showing plainly in her eyes. Then she stopped fighting him suddenly, and her expression seemed almost resigned. Syra shook off the tendril of foreboding he felt curling through his gut and hauled her up in front of the camera. He held her up by the back of her neck.

"Is she satisfactory?"

Dachande looked her over and sniffed. "I suppose so. But wait," he exclaimed, "what is that on her cheek? Is that... your old clan marking?" He growled. "What are you up to, Syra'thwei?"

Syra looked at her cheek in surprise. He had almost forgotten about that. He still had no clue why he'd done that, back in the jungle. It certainly signified no feat of bravery, or that she had completed a chiva. Chiva marks were done with kainde amedha blood, and no other substitute would suffice for that sacred ritual. No, this mark signified that she was his property, or at least his clan's. But that clan had cast him out decades ago; he owed them no loyalty. And besides, he doubted they would want anything to do with a little female ooman.

It was still a problem, however, as he doubted that the Leaders would appreciate him marking up their ooman as his own property. C'jit! Why had he done that? Syra could barely comprehend his own actions anymore.

"None of your pauking business, Dachande. What matters whether she marked or not? You didn't specify what condition your ooman had to be in."

"You fool!" Dachande was furious. "Forgive me for not thinking you would be so stupid as to  _mark it as your property!_ "

Syra roared in response to this stinging rebuke, flaring his mandibles. He barely noticed the little ooman had struggled out of his grip and retreated, terrified, back into her corner. Dachande merely sneered at his display.

"Don't try that c'jit with me, sain'ja!" Dachande warned him scornfully. "I'm no Youngblood to be intimidated by your idiotic display." Syra growled, but was grudgingly silent. "Now listen carefully. If the ooman has a rather.. unique scar on her cheek, it makes no difference. What does matter is the fact that you gave it to her, obviously with some intentions behind your actions." Dachande shrugged. "I don't give a c'jit what those intentions are, but if you've developed some perverse attachment to this female, I suggest you either forget about it, or find a replacement, and make it fast." His eyes narrowed. "Do you understand, Syra'thwei?"

Syra nodded after a brief hesitation. Was the old bastard actually being... tolerating?

"You're being awfully understanding about this, Dachande," he voiced his thoughts suspiciously. "Are you sure you don't have a little ooman tucked away for your own?"

Dachande's expression of disgust made quite clear his feelings on that particular subject. "Don't even think about it. Some of us still remember what it feels like to mate with a real female." The old Yautja's eyes grew bright as he reminisced, and his mandibles curled up into a slow grin. "Trust me on this, Syra'thwei, no ooman in the universe will ever compare to a good, hard pauk with one of your own race. I have the scars to prove it."

Now it was Syra's turn to look disgusted. "If that's all you have to say, Dachande, I'll be going now. I have things to take care of here."

"So you are keeping her?"

"I didn't say that."

Dachande snorted at that rather defensive reply. "Whatever you say. But if you do keep her, don't get  _too_  attached. She's still just an ooman, after all."

"I'd have to be blind not to be reminded of that every time I look at her," Syra replied dryly.

Dachande shrugged. "It's your mistake to make, sain'ja." The screen went black, as Dachande cut off the communication.

Syra huffed in bemusement. That had to be the weirdest conversation he'd ever had. But at least now he knew why that particular Leader was such a cunning bastard. It sounded like he had been an Elder before he had become a Bad Blood – an impossibility, or so Syra had thought. But now... Nothing was definite anymore, it seemed. The ooman cowering in the corner was proof positive of that.

He noted in appreciation that her fear had not dimmed one bit, had in fact increased since he turned to her. For the first time since he'd brought her aboard his ship, he really looked at her, and realized that she wasn't actually  _that_  unappealing, though she could certainly do with a bath.

The hair that made it so easy to drag her around was a deep chestnut color, and it hung in ratty strings down to her lower back. Her eyes peeked out from behind her knees. They were comically wide in fear, demonstrating a pretty, dark brown. Her skin was darker than his own, suggesting that she was what the oomans called hispanic. From what he remembered of oomans from that part of their world, her facial features also suggested the same thing. By their standards, she was quite pretty. Syra wasn't sure about that himself, but she was certainly intriguing.

His promise of punishment was far from his mind now, and he found himself far more interested in exploring her body, so different from the Yautja females he had seen. What was the point of punishing her anymore anyway, when he would have done the same in her circumstances? What happened had been more the fault of his own carelessness than anything else. And besides, he'd already punished her enough to forestall any repeats of that incident. He didn't want to push her past that breaking point, especially not if he was keeping her.

That issue was still under debate in Syra's mind, but he was definitely leaning towards returning to Earth for replacement. At any rate, whether he kept her or no, she still needed to be alive. In his rage earlier, he had abused her rather harshly and she probably needed medical treatment. He seemed to remember cracking her fragile wrist when she refused to drop the sivk'va-tai, and broken bones were a rather big deal for oomans.

Medical bay it was, then. He sniffed. And hopefully a bath afterwards.

* * *

Amber was terrified when he started to approach her again. Her stomach and neck still hurt from the last two times he had come close to her in the last few minutes. He had given her a rude awakening with that kick in the stomach. She wouldn't be surprised if he'd cracked one of her ribs; that was no love tap. And then he'd grabbed her by the neck  _again_ , only to dangle her in front of that screen as he spoke in that strange language that was half growling, half clicking. Showing her off, perhaps?

The alien on the screen hadn't looked too pleased, but with that face, was it even possible? But all that had been nothing compared to her captor's deafening roar. That was when she'd decided that her "no resistance" plan of before maybe wasn't the best idea, and scrambled away.

But what did he want now? The most likely explanation was that he had finally come to fulfill his threat and punish her. She squeezed her eyes shut, curled into an even tighter ball in the corner and waited for the first blow to come.

Amber flinched when she felt his hand on her arm, but he only pulled her feet. She was amazed when he actually put his other arm beneath her knees and lifted her in a bridal carry. When he started walking, she realized how far she now was from the floor and wrapped her uninjured arm around his neck in reflex. He paused and stiffened, gray eyes flicking to her face. Then he shifted his hold and kept walking.

This new position put her quite close to his face, and she took the opportunity to study it in detail. Her hand was touching his hair, and she was surprised to find it was actually hot and pulsing, much more alive than her own hair. His mouth was quite amazing, the way his four mandibles folded tightly over his sharp teeth. The mandibles also seemed to play a major part in his language; the tusks were always clicking together in some kind of accent or punctuation. Amber couldn't see any nose or ears, but she figured they must be somewhere. His hair probably hid his ears, and maybe he smelled with his mouth.

Still, as amazing as the rest of his face was, his eyes were by far his best feature. Shining gray with golden flecks scattered around the irises, they seemed almost luminous in the dim lighting of the ship.

A door slid open in front of them and he stepped inside. Amber looked around the room. The closest thing she could compare it to was an infirmary. Then again, it could be a torture room. Either one was equally possible.

She shivered as he laid her down on a cold metal table. She didn't think it was a torture room, as he was being quite gentle. Well, gentle for him. He went to a cabinet on the wall and drew out a few things. None of them looked pain inducing, thank god. He set them down on the table next to her, but didn't use them. Instead, he took her injured arm, not ungently, and stuck it into a machine next to the table. He strapped her arm down inside it, before he strapped her other arm and legs to the table. By some miracle, he managed to get them tight enough to secure her, quite a feat considering this equipment was built for someone his size.

She didn't consider it a miracle, however, and started to fight the restraints. He quelled her with one evil glare. She was again surprised when he stroked her hair, almost as if he was trying to be comforting. Then he pressed a button on the machine and her only thought was pain, burning pain, all centering around her wrist. Amber gave a choked scream. As she writhed around on the table, trying to escape the all-consuming pain coming from her arm, she thought she saw a laser coming out of the machine, and she realized why it hurt so bad. It was fusing the bone back together.

After an indefinite period of time (she wasn't exactly counting the seconds), it finally stopped. The whole time, he hadn't stopped watching her, devouring her face with his piercing gaze, missing nothing in his scrutiny, or so it appeared. Fine tremors racked her body as the last wave of pain dissolved away. His hand, previously offering some meager comfort on her hair, now traveled to her mouth. One claw slowly traced the line of her lips; she didn't move a muscle.

Suddenly, he caught himself and snapped his hand back. Her restraints were off in no time, but she didn't move from the table. He wasn't done. He took a jar of ointment and dipped one claw in it. Gently, he rubbed it onto the bruises around her neck, and more generously on her stomach and around her wrist. Everywhere that had a cut or bruise, he slathered on some of the ointment.

He turned to put it away, and she sat up and looked at her wrist, only to find the bruises all but gone. She gasped and his head snapped around. She thought he smirked.

"How-"

"You oomans are pathetically behind us in medicine and technology and, well, everything." She flinched at the truth behind that statement. He was right, she thought bitterly, humans really were inferior to them in every way.

She looked up to find herself face to chest with her captor. Suddenly, she had the striking realization that he was smoking hot, when he wasn't raping or choking her, at least. He actually had an eight pack, something no human would ever achieve. The fishnet hid nothing, and the various skulls suddenly engendered a totally different feeling from fear.

She suddenly noticed a certain part of him taking interest in the situation, and became acutely embarrassed. That feeling didn't last for long, however. She looked him in the eye, noticing that his irises were now a thin ring around his blown pupils. Amber inhaled a shaky breath and noticed an intoxicating smell in the air, almost a musk; it was sweet and wood smelling, and totally  _him_.

Amber moaned softly, her own eyes black with arousal. Without thinking, she placed her hands on his chest and leaned her upturned face into his. His skin beneath the fishnet was hard and scaly, abrading her fingers. Sitting on the high table put her just high enough to touch her mouth to his, and she did just that, giving him one long lick along his lower mandible.

He pulled her back by her hair and she stiffened, expecting swift retribution for so bold an act. She wasn't even sure why she'd done it. That musk he was exuding gave her this heady feeling, like she could do anything.

But he didn't hit her. Instead, his hand flattened on the back of her neck and he wrapped his free arm around her waist, jerking her into his chest. His scales rubbed against her naked breasts and she drew a shaky breath as he looked into her eyes, seeming to see into her very soul. Then, hesitantly, he opened his mandibles and drew her face in between them. He opened his inner mouth and his tongue flicked out. She opened her mouth to meet his and his tongue thrust inside.

They were kissing! No,  _he_  was kissing  _her_ , something she'd thought an impossibility just ten minutes ago. His arm on her head switched to grip her ass as he lifted her off the table, and she wrapped her legs around his waist. His mandibles still held her mouth to his; the sharp tusks dug into her cheeks, but she didn't mind. She was too busy tugging his hair with one hand and groping his chest with the other. He had started purring almost immediately and the vibrations against her breasts made her shiver deliciously.

Amber could feel herself become wet, and knew that he could tell as well because his chest expanded and he stiffened. He growled and suddenly she was slammed against the wall. She winced and grunted as the air left her lungs in a rush. His hips ground punishingly into hers, undoubtedly leaving more bruises. He undid his loincloth and then he was pushing inside her.

She gasped at the painful fullness; even though she had been ready, it still wasn't enough. He was just too big. Amber cried out in pain and tried frantically to push him away, but she was totally helpless, her feet dangling almost two feet off the floor. She thought he would just ignore her protests like he'd done in the past, and she wondered bitterly why she had ever thought any differently, even for a moment. Then she realized that he hadn't moved inside her. He was purring harder than ever, but his hands on her gentled slightly, even as his kisses became softer, more lingering. He actually cared! For Amber, that was a momentous realization. Now she was only left to wonder why... But not right now.

Her body was slowly becoming accustomed to the intrusion, and pain was turning into toe-curling pleasure. He seemed to recognize this change, for his hand on her waist joined the one on her ass and he slowly lifted her up, up off his cock, until she nearly moaned at the loss, then slammed her down. She squeaked, but moaned in pleasure when he did it again. His upper mandibles curled up slightly, and she knew he was quite smug about her reaction. He could keep his smugness, she thought, as long as he didn't stop what he was doing. Dear god, he couldn't stop!

He changed his pace and his strokes became rough and uneven as he slammed her over and over into the wall. But she didn't mind, because she was so, oh so close to coming herself. Then one thrust came, angled just right, and she saw stars. Amber screamed in release, her inner walls clamping down on his cock, milking it. But even in her near-incoherent state, she couldn't miss his deafening roar as he followed her into ecstasy, and his white-hot seed jetting into her.

When the last aftershocks faded away, her eyes slid closed and she curled into his chest, the heat he radiated nearly burning her. All she comprehended was an overpowering feeling of comfort and safety, and that his skin was not quite so hard and scaly as she had thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations (in order of appearance)
> 
> sain'ja - warrior  
> kha'bj-te - maniac/reckless  
> kehrite - training hall/dojo  
> kainde amedha - hard meat; refers to xenomorphs  
> kwei - sly  
> c'nlip - intoxicating beverage  
> gkei'moun - easy/simple  
> pauk(er) - fuck(er)  
> sivk'va-tai - plasma caster/shoulder cannon


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year! :) Enjoy!

Syra struggled to control his breathing, which was still a bit labored, while he pondered the unbelievable phenomenon in his arms. She was actually asleep! After all he'd done to her, enough to make her hate and fear him for the rest of her stunted lifespan, she had the gall to feel safe in his arms. And right after he'd pauked her too, as if his pride wasn't sore enough. He was still dazed over that one. There he was, ready to throw her into a bath and then into his bed, when she turned around looking like the most gorgeous thing in the universe.

He'd approached her, intending to prove to himself that he hadn't developed any strong feelings for her by giving her a quick pauk. He couldn't think why she'd suddenly started cooperating, even encouraging him. Perhaps, his dai-shui? But why would she respond like that? The musk was more of an extra encouragement, only kicking in if the female was already attracted the male. It wouldn't create an attraction out of nothing, but it would nurse the flame, so to speak, and help it along more quickly. Syra's eyes glinted in amusement.

Was she really so desperate? He had heard of the ooman's strange concept of love, perhaps she thought she was in love with him. He laughed softly. Silly oomans. They had to make every little thing have a deeper meaning. Sometimes, a pauk was just a pauk... Wasn't it? He shook his head. This was ridiculous. She was nothing special. So he'd decided to keep her around longer than anticipated, so he wanted to find a replacement for the Leaders. It didn't mean anything.

She was just a stupid, sentimental ooman, and he was merely taking advantage of her feelings for him. And Paya, what an advantage it was. The other times he'd pauked her didn't even compare to what he'd just experienced. When she'd come, her already tight inner walls squeezing his cock... It had been worth accommodating her, slowing down, just to feel-

He cut himself short. Paya, he was becoming nearly as sentimental as her. Well, time to bathe her, he supposed. Syra looked irritatedly at the slumbering, little baggage in his arms and huffed. It was so much work to keep her clean and healthy, especially now that he couldn't trust her alone. Even leaving her in his quarters had been too risky, even if she was chained. It would be best if she were with him at all times. He grinned cruelly. She'd better get used to getting pauked a lot, as he was finding it increasingly hard to think about anything else around her.

Syra strode back to his bedroom, picking up his loincloth as an afterthought, and through an inner door that led to a lavish bathing pool. He tossed the undergarment aside, discarding his other clothing just as carelessly, a difficult task with the ooman still in his arms. His mask, however, he put to his face for a moment, changing the water temperature to accommodate her, before he set it out of the way. Then he looked at the sleeping ooman curled up against his chest like a suckling to its mother and descended the metal steps into the deep pool.

She woke slowly, seeming thoroughly bewildered for a moment. Then she noticed she was still clinging to him and looked suddenly horrified, pulling away frantically. He let her go, backing away to sit on the bench cut into the walls with a sigh. He looked at her unblinkingly as she quickly surveyed her surroundings. She noticed his stare and blushed, crossing her arms over her chest. The water that came only to his stomach, standing, came almost to her neck. Though it was almost steaming, she shivered, her skin pebbling into hard bumps. He imagined her nipples doing the same thing and almost choked, barely keeping his lust in check.

Squirming under his regard, she finally blurted out, "Stop staring at me!"

He trilled in amusement. "Why?"

She jumped at his inquiry. "B-because it's rude," she mumbled.

Syra became quite irritated at her lame reasoning. "Name an instance when I have ever been  _polite_ to you." He spit the word out as if it disgusted him, which it did.

She flinched and looked down. "I'm sorry," she whispered. He huffed and leaned back, placated for now. She looked at him again, opened her mouth and drew breath to speak, but closed it saying anything, clearly afraid to question him.

He rolled his eyes. She was like a skittish rabbit around him, a habit that was becoming more and more annoying, though he had enjoyed it at first. "Spit it out!"

She looked at him wide-eyed for a moment, then asked quietly, "Where are we?"

"In a bath."

"Why?"

He glanced over her, giving a her doubtful look, and she blushed hotly.

"Well, where's the soap then?" she said defensively.

"It's not necessary. There are micro-organisms in the water that consume dirt and various other things on your skin. They're harmless," he added, seeing her expression.

"How do you know they're harmless to me?" she demanded. "I don't want something eating my skin off!" She made a break for the steps out of the pool, but he leaped up with a splash and grabbed her by the waist, dragging her back into the water.

"You're fine," he growled, "but it takes about a half hour for them to finish, so you can't leave yet." He held her until she stilled, then pulled her gently to the bench and sat down. He clicked his mandibles and pulled her into his lap. She stiffened at first, but after a few minutes she relaxed and curled into his chest again.

Her steady breathing calmed him and he stroked her hair softly. He was just contemplating how he would go about getting another ooman once he reached earth, when she spoke.

"What's your name?" she asked, startling him. She looked up at him curiously.

He hesitated for a moment, then said finally, "Syra'thwei."

"Seerah thwey," she tried the name out hesitantly.

He laughed. "No,  _Syra'thwei,_ " he corrected, accentuating the click of his mandibles between the syllables.

"Well, I don't have mandibles! I can't make  _clicks_  like that."

He snorted. "No you don't. And what a pathetic loss that is."

"Hey!"

He ignored her indignant outburst. "Just call me Syra."

"Syra... Sounds a bit like a girl's name," she blurted out without thinking, then looked horrified when she realized what she'd just said.

She tried to flounder out of his lap, but his grip was like iron around her waist. One hand came up to wrap around her throat. She cringed when she caught his expression.

"Are you calling me a female?" he asked incredulously.

"N-no!" she stuttered. She was quite perplexed when he suddenly grinned.

"I didn't realize you thought that highly of me, ooman," he said, returning her to his lap and laughing when at her puzzlement. "Yautja females are considered superior to males. They're bigger, stronger, smarter, and a whole lot meaner, plus they contain the means to continue our race. In all, a lot more important."

She looked shocked. "My god! Aliens are actually ruled by females!"

"No we're not, thank Paya. The females have no interest in ruling. They have their hands full raising their sucklings. And on their brief reprieves from motherhood, they go on hunts. So long as they can still beat any male into submission and mate on occasion, clan politics don't really affect them."

Despite the fact that he was talking about females of his own race, not hers, she still felt slightly insulted.

"Not all females are like that, you know."

He looked at her speculatively. "No, you oomans are quite the opposite. The females actually want power, but you're not strong enough to take it."

"We're still smarter than men," she said glibly.

He grunted. "Possibly. But knowing ooman men, that's hardly an accomplishment."

"If all you  _Yautja_  think we're so stupid, then why bother hunting us? How is it an 'accomplishment' to kill a bunch of defenseless idiots?"

He looked at her sharply. "Not all of think it is. The majority of the Yautja have an outdated system of laws based on the honor of the hunt. One of those laws forbids the killing of anything pregnant, old, defenseless, etc."

"But you disagree?" she said slowly, realizing what sensitive ground she was on.

He smiled harshly. "Yes. There are some of us who think the Elders who make those laws are getting too 'elder' and that they and their laws should be replaced by something newer. But we are merely a rebel sect, so to speak, and anyone who, through their actions, proves an affinity with us is exiled. Bad Bloods, they call us, those 'honored warriors' who think themselves so much better than us when, in truth, they enjoy the kill as much as anyone, defenseless or no." Syra wondered at the passion in his voice as he explained this to her. What did he care what she thought of him?

"So you're like an outlaw?" she asked, wide-eyed.

"I suppose," he agreed reluctantly.

She shook her head in wonderment. "So that's how you became a Bad Blood, by killing an old lady?" Despite the serious subject, she found it hard to keep from laughing at that ridiculous thought.

"No, it isn't," he said, annoyed that she was making light of this. "I killed three Elders, my instructor, and my own father."

Her bobbed like a fish. "I-I... You... But... Your own father?"

"I barely knew him. The females raise the sucklings by themselves. The only part the males have in that particular duty is to impregnate the females when they're fertile."

"Oh." She was silent for a moment. "That's sad."

"Oomans." He laughed. "I just told you that I murdered five of my own kind, including my father, and you feel sorry for me because he didn't care about me. Amazing."

"No, I didn't-" He laughed harder. "It's still wrong, but-Oh, forget it! If you're just going to make fun of me, I'm not staying here." She tried to push off his lap again, but found herself again held fast.

"Did I say you could leave, ooman?" he growled softly, but she was too angry to be scared.

"My name isn't ooman,  _Yautja!_ "

"Oh? Then what is it?" He pulled her hair painfully. "Hmm?"

"It's Amber," she gritted out.

"Amber..." He released her hair. "You're named after fossilized tree resin?" he said disgustedly.

"What? There's nothing wrong with my name! What does your name mean?"

"Head-blood."

"And you're criticizing me? With a name like that?"

"It means I'm smart," he snarled.

"Really? You could've fooled me," she scoffed. "All I ever see you using is brute force."

"And isn't it smart to make use of your other assets?" he countered. "You want brute force?" He dove under the water, before she could answer, forcing her down beneath him. He sat on her at the bottom, holding her there with ease despite her desperate struggles.

He forced open her mouth with his hand, fisted his cock, and pushed it inside, so deep she choked. She panicked, unable to buck him off and with her hands trapped beneath his knees. He stayed there, unmoving, for what seemed an eternity, until she felt her lungs would burst and her movements grew slow and leaden. She was just about to give up, resigned that he would drown her, when he pulled out and dragged her up to the surface.

She gasped, immensely grateful for every painful breath of air. She coughed up water, then gave a hoarse scream as he dragged her out of the water by her hair.

"Just making sure your head got clean, too," he said sarcastically.

Syra grabbed a huge towel and roughly wiped her dry, then himself. Amber knelt on the floor, still coughing up water as tears ran freely down her cheeks. She couldn't believe he'd done that, and over such a small thing. She'd really only been poking fun, irritated that he'd made fun of her name, which she happened to like. After what they'd shared earlier, she wouldn't have thought... Clearly, she had been wrong to assume that he would change just because he'd been nice to her for two minutes. But he had proved his point. She certainly wouldn't be taking the liberty of teasing him anytime soon. Not when his mercurial moods could turn violent at a moment's notice.

"Get up," he said harshly, having gathered his clothing and dressed. His mask was in place on his belt.

"No."

Silence. "What?"

"I said, no. You can't treat me like this."

"Is that so?"

"You almost killed me back there," she said quietly. "Was that all just to prove a point?"

He said nothing.

"I disobey you and you punish me. I do what you say and you try to drown me while shoving your cock down my throat. What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"You think to make me feel guilty? I could have killed you with the others back on Earth."

"Well, why don't you finish the job now?" she screamed at him. "Was saving me really some great mercy, or am I worse off than those poor bastards you slaughtered in the jungle?"

He snorted. "You're alive, they're not. Who's better off is irrelevant, because you're certainly not going to be joining them anytime soon.

"Why not? Am I just too good a lay?" Her voice was bitter. "Is that it, huh?"

"What other reason would there be?" he spat angrily.

She seemed to deflate. "That's really all I am to you, a toy? That's the only reason you kidnapped me, so you could have a convenient sex slave who doubles as a punching bag?" She exhaled. "Wow... I don't know why I'm surprised, why I expected more. What am I to you, anyway, except a stupid, weak human?"

Amber stood up slowly and walked into the bedroom. She picked up the abandoned collar off the floor and put it around her neck, snapping it shut with a click. She turned to face him, expressionless.

"Do what you want."

He looked as if he was about to say something, when his mask beeped. He growled, and put it on. The snarl he gave when he saw the problem could have made a lion turn tail and run. He spun around and ran out the door without another word. Amber almost followed him, but then remembered the collar around her neck; she had no way to get it off now. That dramatic gesture certainly hadn't gone as planned. Now she was stuck here, with no idea of what was going on and no clue as to what he would do when he returned. Unbelievable.


	7. Chapter 7

Syra raced through the dim hallways, his footsteps pounding, as he didn't bother to quiet them in his hurry. He was still annoyed at the ooman, Amber, for questioning him like that. And the little baggage had the nerve to make ultimatums! He would have to deal with her; the current situation was becoming intolerable and she refused to accept her place. But not now, not when his mask had just informed him of a perimeter alert. He had it set to inform him as soon as his ship detected another ship anywhere near. He didn't want any nasty surprises, like an Arbitrator, sneaking up on him.

At last, he reached the ship's controls and sunk down into the pilot's chair. He brought up an image on the large, viewing screen – the ship was foreign, certainly not a Yautja vessel. But it was fighter class, whatever it was, and that was no better. Being the most dominating race in the galaxy had its disadvantages; there were a lot of other races that hated your guts. And the Bad Blood clan had developed a reputation for being even worse than the other clans. They were hated equally by almost every civilized race. He, personally, was wanted for murder, manslaughter or genocide on over 50 planets. It made space travel difficult, to say the least.

He did have several major advantages over the other ship, however, if it came to a fight. His own vessel was far better equipped, built for long voyages and totally prepared for hostile encounters. Not only was it much larger than the average fighter class, it had more weapons, stronger shields, plus the latest in cloaking technology, "acquired" by yours truly. Arbitrators aside, it was gkei'moun to sneak into one of the massive research labs on Yautja Prime and swipe some of the abundance of technology they had stored there. Some of his weapons weren't even available yet for public use, a fact he was quite proud of.

But getting back to the topic on hand, Syra decided a fight was just what he needed. The other ship was blocking a full scan, so he didn't know what exactly was on it, but he figured there was a good chance it was hostile. A good hunt should provide an interesting diversion and might take his mind off the irritation in his bedroom. Stealth being of the essence now, he quickly engaged the full cloak, rendering his ship nearly invisible to almost any scan, even the most thorough. He set his ship on a course to come alongside the other, magnetizing the hull so he could board it easily. This wouldn't take long, so he had to hurry to prepare.

He realized with annoyance that he'd have to return to his bedroom to gather his awu'asa. The kehrite contained nearly all his weapons, but he kept his prized armor in his bedroom, close at hand. Syra growled. Unfortunately, if he wanted that fight, there was no time to deal with Amber just then; she would have to wait. He had to stop letting her get to him. There was no reason why she should be able to get under his thick skin like no one else ever could. Most of his own clan actually found it quite difficult to provoke him, not that they dared. That he could let a little ooman make him reluctant to enter his own bedroom...

With a snort of disgust, he headed for the kehrite to gather some weapons. Not being sure of what he would encounter on board the other ship, he took a few more than usual. The first one he grabbed, most important by far, was his treasured ki'cti-pa. He had crafted it himself for his chiva, so long ago, yet it was still in pristine condition, being made of the finest d'lex, a material his old clan had specialized in making. Though he was fairly skilled in most Yautja weapons, his skill was unmatched with the ki'cti-pa; with it at his side, he was practically unbeatable.

With the retracted spear safely stowed away on his back, he quickly grabbed his dah'kte and chakt-ra. Fully armed, except for the sivk'va-tai, which he disliked, he looked quite imposing, hopefully enough to keep the ooman shut up long enough for him to grab his awu'asa and leave. Syra huffed. He probably wasn't that lucky.

Striding quickly through the silently opening door, he found her pacing agitatedly, as much as her self-placed collar would allow. She glanced up, but amazingly, she was, in fact, surprised enough by his changed appearance to keep her mouth shut for once. Thank Paya, he inwardly rejoiced. She must have thought he was ready to kill or torture her with his newly outfitted gear, because she raised her hands, palms out, to ward him off and backed away with a look of horrified dismay.

"Whoah, w-what are you doing?" She stumbled over her words in her panic. Apparently, she had not expected such a drastic reaction to her silly ultimatum. He sneered. As if he would bother to get out his ki'cti-pa just to punish her for locking herself up, of all things.

He shot her a quelling look, but she didn't catch it through his mask. "Be quiet," he said harshly. "Other things demand my attention for now, but I'll deal with you when I get back," he assured her as he efficiently secured his armor, his movements automatic after so long.

She looked at him warily. "Where are you going? Are you going down to a planet?"

"We're nowhere near any inhabitable planet," he answered distractedly.

"Then what-"

"No more questions!" Amber jumped when he barked at her. "I won't be back for a while, possibly not for several hours." That was being generous, he thought. Shouldn't take too long to clean out the crew, even for a fighter class. Then he'd gather whatever trophies caught his fancy and hop back here. The clean up was no problem, a few shots from the massive plasma cannons his ship was equipped with and the other ship was toast, decapitated bodies and all.

"Make yourself at home," he sneered at Amber over his shoulder on his way out the door. "And don't even think about trying anything stupid. If I find one of those,"–He motioned toward his trophies lining the walls–"just a little askew, I will break every bone in your body. Understand?" His tone made it clear to her that he was dead serious. She nodded stiffly, her jaw aching from clenching it so hard.

Syra nodded in approval and strode out of the room. Just to be sure, he securely locked the door; there was no way she was getting out of that room now. He got to the exit door just in time, the ship shook slightly as it attached itself to the other's hull. The door slid open, revealing the door of the other ship. It wasn't locked, he just pressed the control button and it slid open to reveal the pressurized airlock. Using his mask, he ordered his ship to detach from the hull, but stay close. He didn't want anything on this ship to have access to his own.

That done, he engaged his own cloak and stepped through the next door. His mask was switched to infrared, but he found no heat signals immediately. There weren't even any lights on. Everywhere was pitch black and cold. If this was just a derelict, that would be quite a disappointment. But wait! There was a faint heat signal coming from the right. Syra walked silently down the quiet hallways. Suddenly, his foot stuck to something on the floor, while at the same time, his fingers stuck to the wall. He pulled them away and stepped back cautiously. He rubbed his fingers together, analyzing the material with his mask. It almost felt like...

His eyes widened as he realized. The gooey substance along the walls and floor was te-dqi and this was a kainde amedha nest! How-

His shocked thoughts were interrupted as something threw him hard onto the floor, catching him by surprise. He brought his dah'kte up just in time to impale the drone that leaped on him. Unfortunately, in its dying throes, it smacked him in the head hard enough to make his mask malfunction for a second and make him see stars. It also left four long scratches across the front of the mask. Hopefully, they would serve as a reminder of his stupidity, which had almost gotten him killed.

Syra tossed the drone off his dah'kte before it dripped its acid blood all over him, rising to a crouch. His hair swung around him as he looked around quickly to make sure there were no more waiting to attack him. The thing's death scream had undoubtedly alerted all of them of his presence; he cursed himself for his stupidity. He decided the best option was probably retreat. Who knew how many more drones there could be? There had to be a queen, he knew that. Only she could produce the te-dqi in such a quantity. Still, he ought to check out that heat signal.

He rose, brushed himself off, and re-engaged his cloak, which thankfully was undamaged. Since they already knew he was here, speed was more important than stealth, since they could undoubtedly smell the blood from their lost brother on his dah'kte. He raced silently through the hallways toward the faint heat signal, getting stronger as he got closer. Finally, he came to a door which appeared to be locked, as there were at least five drones all prowling around it, scratching on it and trying to pry it open. They were unsuccessful so far, but it was only a matter of time; they were very persistent little bastards.

He resisted the urge to roar a challenge at them, knowing it would only further alert them to his location. He pulled out his ki'cti-pa, extending it with a faint metallic "shink." He twirled it, going automatically into a fighting stance. Syra gave a quick grin, then leaped on the group gathered in front of the door. There was no warning, just a huge spear that suddenly appeared inside one of the drone's heads, killing it instantly. In a flash, he'd pulled it out and stuck another one through the chest. He held its body up with one hand while the other shot out to catch a third drone with his dah'kte.

He shook both bodies off, tossing the one still impaled on his ki'cti-pa onto the other two, who quickly backed off, hissing in rage. One of them jumped onto the ceiling while the other tried to get away, probably to collect some of its nestmates to help. In a flash, he pulled out his chakt-ra and threw it at the escaping one. The sharp disc instantly decapitated the drone, bouncing off the walls and returning to him.

But in the time it took for Syra to catch the chakt-ra, the one on the ceiling had attacked, its long tail nearly taking off his arm. With a screech, it too tried to jump on him, but he dodged, neatly severing its tail on the ground with his ki'cti-pa. It let out a pained scream, but was quickly silenced when he dug his claws into its neck and ripped its head off. Ignoring the painful acid burns, he looked around, checking the area, and sheathed his spear and retracted his dah'kte.

Too late, he heard the scratch of claws in the darkness, and felt something heavy land on his back. Syra felt a brief moment of fear, then his training kicked in and he threw himself on his back, crushing the beast beneath him. He did a back somersault, stabbing it in the chest with his dah'kte as the inner mouth grazed his neck. He caught the long tongue, ripping it off in rage.

Finally, he looked around him, seeing only dead. Breathing hard, he moved to the door, quickly hacking into the lock with his mask, which was still giving him static every now and then. That first drone must have damaged it more than he'd thought. He'd have to check it out when he got back. Finally, he got the door open, stepping in cautiously. There was shallow breathing coming from the corner and his head swung around to look.

Syra was rather surprised to find the heat signature was still rather faint, so he switched the mask to its color night vision setting. He gaped in amazement. It was a small child, huddled in the corner. Not a pyode amedha, obviously. They didn't have spaceships nearly this advanced, though once they did, he wouldn't be surprised if they had some kainde amedha infestations, what with their carelessness. His mask did a full scan of the child as he slowly approached it. It was female and appeared to be carrying a very sharp knife.

She had dark green, glistening scales, and no ears, to speak of. Besides that, she looked quite similar to the oomans in many ways. As he approached, she opened her mouth to hiss at him with a mouth bursting with tiny, but very sharp teeth. Her cheeks were hollow, giving her small face a skeletal look, and her eyes were tiny silver slits, glinting in the dark. Her hair was pitch black, but glittered in the dark like diamonds. Her modesty was protected by a strange material; it was hard, but it conformed easily to her movements.

Suddenly, he knew what she was. Of all the races in the galaxy, it was hers that hated him the most. The Sijila planets had orders to shoot on site anything that even looked like it might be Yautja in origin. How ironic that he should be the one to rescue one of their precious daughters. Or not. He didn't have to save her, after all. With the way she was waving that knife in front of her, it was apparent she'd already started on battle training; it would be easier just to leave her here, rather than fighting both her and the drones to get her off this ship. The Sijila were trained to be hostile to everyone and everything, but they were sure to be extra hostile to him, even a little girl that was barely trained.

He huffed in annoyance. But of course he couldn't just leave her here. His old clan might think he had no care for any life but his own, even that of a child, but he had his kinder moments sometimes. This was apparently one of them. But he had to be quick, time was of the essence here. He'd better get his ship reattached to the hull so he could make a quick exit. He called up the ship's controls on his mask, ignoring the hissing little snake in the corner for now. He growled in annoyance when he found they weren't working right. That drone had damaged his ability to direct the ship; he could only control its inner functions.

He thought for a moment. Maybe... He grunted in disgust. Nothing for it, he supposed, but she'd better not get any ideas...

He turned on the ship's intercom, connecting to the one in his bedroom.

"Amber! Press the glowing blue button on the wall and tell me if you can hear me."

There was a moment of silence, and he huffed in annoyance, almost giving up.

Then, "Syra? What's going on?"

"Be quiet, and do exactly as I say. Pull that collar apart as hard as you can."

"Why?" she asked, confused.

"Just do it!" he gritted out. A moment later, he heard a clang and thanked Paya for his luck. She hadn't locked the thing completely, though he hadn't considered that when he'd left.

"What? How-" she exclaimed.

"You didn't lock it all the way, but never mind that!" he growled. "I'm unlocking the door, now go out and turn right."

"But-"

"Do it  _now!_  And take the com with you. Just snap it off the wall."

There was a clang as she ripped it off the wall, then the just barely discernible swish of the doors.

"Okay, what now?"

"Just keep going until the hall ends in a doorway. I'll unlock that door too. And make it quick," he snapped.

She muttered something about a "grumpy bastard," but he let it slide, time being of the essence. The little snake in the corner was getting restless in his presence. He heard the swish of doors again, then her gasp.

"Wow... I'm guessing these are the ship's controls..."

"Yes, they are," he growled. She was taking too long! He didn't want to have to fight off the whole nest while he waited for her to stop gaping in wonder. "Go to the pilot's chair, it's the biggest one."

"How am I supposed to get in a chair that big-"

He didn't hear the rest of her sentence. All he heard was the scratching of claws on the metal floors. Well, as long as they knew he was here...

He roared, his arms coming up instinctively into a hostile pose. The drones weren't even phased, merely slowing their approach to evaluate the situation. He swung his ki'cti-pa from his back, letting the sharp ends shoot out. The ooman was still talking, though her voice had become significantly more fearful.

"Syra, what's going on? Where are you?"

"Amber." His voice was low and quiet, and unbelievably menacing. She shut up instantly. "Sit in the chair and tap the biggest screen you see."

Around him, the drones attempted to encircle him, hissing occasionally. He counted at least ten. His hair swung wildly as he tried to keep an eye on all of them at the same time, plus make sure the Sijila girl was unharmed. Luckily, the kainde amedha were ignoring her for now, deciding instead to concentrate their force on eliminating him. Syra snorted. How flattering.

"Okay," came Amber's voice, "I touched the screen. Now there's some red... letters...? And a bunch of pictures, I guess..."

The first one jumped, immediately followed by two more. He stuck one through the neck with the spear, impaling another on the other end and blocking the third with the staff part of it. He shook the two dead off it and stabbed the third through the chest. Then he shook off the blood.

"You see the red lines connecting some of the symbols?"

"Yeah!"

"Drag your finger-" He caught the sharp tail that lanced toward him and used it to slam its owner into the wall. "-from the last connected-" Two more came at him. He tossed his ki'cti-pa into the air, catching them through the necks with his dah'kte and threw them back at the now cowering mob, just in time to catch his spear as it fell. "-symbol to the one in the..." He thought for a moment while he jumped onto another drone, pinning it through the chest into the floor with his ki'cti-pa. "...fifth column, second row."

"Um, okay..."

He used the spear as a vaulting pole, jumping up and running sideways over the last four who tried to surround him again. Having knocked them back, he quickly dispatched three of them with his dah'kte. One left. The Sijila was hissing fearfully in the corner, clutching her knife desperately. Apparently, her training hadn't yet prepared her for this.

"Okay, I did it! I think..."

He was paying no attention to the ooman as he caught the last drone, holding it high over his head before he slammed it down on the ki'cti-pa still stuck into the floor.

"Syra?"

He stood there panting for a moment, enjoying the delicious feeling of victory. "Good. Go back to my quarters and wait for me. I'll be back momentarily." He cut the communication off before she could say more. He didn't really care whether or not she obeyed him; it wasn't like he couldn't deal with her when he got back. And now that she'd seen the controls, she should know that she'd have no hope of deciphering them enough to get herself home without him.

Syra heaved himself up off the floor, aware that more drones would be coming soon. He picked out the biggest and most undamaged drone of the bunch and hauled it out of the pile. He would take this one back and make a trophy or two out of it. Finally, he turned his attention back the snake. He huffed. All he saw the girl as right now was an extra irritation that he had to cart back to his ship. She couldn't be more than a few years old, though they matured pretty fast. She might look small, but she was probably old enough to have a few children of her own, one reason why the Sijila were so dangerous. A bottleneck meant nothing to them; they'd be back up to strength within fifty years.

Slowly, he approached the girl, crouching before her. She hissed and brandished her knife, though he could smell the pungent fear coming off her. Maybe her fear would make her easier to handle.

"What's your name, little girl?" he asked in Sijilan, a language made up primarily of hissing. No surprise there. Thanks to his body's extremely evolved speech system, he could imitate it perfectly.

"Zhali," she spat. "Who are you?"

"Syra is my name, but that's not important. Now listen up, Zhali," he said harshly. She gazed at him warily. "Your life depends on how well you obey me. If you don't do exactly as I say, I'll leave you here to die. Those things-" He motioned toward the dead drones behind him. "-will plant an egg in your chest through your mouth and a couple hours later, a little baby will dig its bloody way out of your chest, leaving your dead body behind as an empty shell. Understand?" She flinched and nodded. "Good, now hold on to me."

He opened his arms and, after a brief hesitation, she leaped into them, wrapping her arms around his neck in a near-stranglehold. Clearly, he had terrified her sufficiently, he thought wryly.

"Don't let go, no matter what," he ordered sharply. Her head nodded from where it was buried in his neck. "This should be interesting," he muttered in his own language.

He grabbed his chosen trophy kill and tossed it over his shoulder, before he strode out the door, making his way carefully down the hallways toward the exit door where his ship was waiting. He must have taken a wrong turn, because somehow he found himself in a room which, upon further examination, contained at least fifty eggs. As if sensing his arrival, they began to open, revealing the agile, octopus-like creatures which planted their own eggs inside a chosen host. He looked up and saw, way in the back of this surprisingly spacious room, the queen, undoubtedly the one responsible for the slaughter of this ship's entire crew. She scented him and screeched in rage and fury.

Throwing caution to the wind, he turned tail and ran. He found the turn he'd taken wrong, corrected it, and sprinted for the exit. He heard no pounding footsteps, so the queen had obviously not deigned to chase after him herself, but the scratching behind him suggested that she had sent her drones after him in force. Zhali shook in fear.

Finally, he reached the airlock, slamming it shut behind him. A drone screeched as its claws were severed between the heavy doors. Breathing heavily, he gave a quick look around the small airlock to make sure there were no face-huggers lying in wait that could potentially cross over to his ship. Seeing nothing, he opened the door of both ships, crossing gratefully into his. The door slid shut and locked behind him. He sighed and leaned against the door, tossing the dead drone to the floor. Thank Paya for blessed peace. He looked up at the sound of footsteps.

"Oh, my god! What the fuck is that?"

Ah, well, it was fun while it lasted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Sijila are my own creation, taken from nothing except my own imagination.
> 
> Translations (in order of appearance)
> 
> gkei'moun - easy/simple  
> awu'asa - armor  
> kehrite - training hall/dojo  
> ki'cti-pa - Combi Stick/spear  
> d'lex - super-strong metallic/crystalline material  
> dah'kte - wristblades  
> chakt-ra - smart disk  
> sivk'va-tai - plasma caster/ shoulder cannon  
> te-dqi - xenomorph secretion; gooey substance that coats the walls, floors and ceilings around a hive  
> kainde amedha - hard meat; refers to xenomorphs

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Badass in the Blood - A Christmas Special](https://archiveofourown.org/works/306848) by [speederina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/speederina/pseuds/speederina)




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